Tripod, part two
To my readers, There's a bit of… mature allusions in the latter half of this chapter, if need be I'll move the ranking up, but this is more of a one-time mention than anything like a continuous trend. What can I say, President Shinra's no saint. KS
Leaning forward, fat rim med eyes folded into wrinkled slits with a spot of color at there enter the Fat Man's whole frame rippled as he tried to room. Years of raining allowed the Turk in the Fat Man's presence to remain placid. The emotions that boiled around his chest were as nothing, and since "supposed" did not exist then there were no emotions. Overall it was a much more effective measure than just merely suppressing the troublesome illogical facets of his psyche.
As silence spread and deepened the fat man's rage provided more than enough emotion to fill the space of the office. Little wonder the walls didn't quake with the man's emoting.
"That's your big report… nothing." The words came out with a hiss, idly the Turk lost in a miasma of detachment and observation likened the sound to that of steam seeping out some seam before the whole contraption blew.
Arms clasped behind his back, Tseng did nothing, said nothing, he scarcely breathed. There were SOLDIERS here, the black of there uniformed marking them as first class. A nod from the president, or a howled order, it wouldn't mater how the order was delivered… al it would take was an order for the leash to be snapped. Once free SOLDIER would do what they did best, kill. And despite his Turk training the Wutia Turk would be little more than a rotting piece of carrion in the Fat Man's office.
Damned difficult to complete one's objective while decomposing, he shifted a half step aware that mako filled eyes watched his every motion, missing nothing.
SOLDIER had truly declined over the last seven years. Stripped of soul, mind, and ideal SOLDIER was supposed to serve as a replacement to the Turks. Striped of all humanity the President had through that SOLDIER would become a more placid form of Turk.
Little did the Fat Man grasp the complexities of the Turks.
Acting under the advice of sycophants and little minded aids he'd rejected years… no centuries of proof that pointed to the fact that the dispirited were the worst form of subject. The uncaring did not guard with diligence, the unmotivated did not aspire much less dare to dream… and without dreams the state of progress withered and died. Oblivious to history's many shining –bloody- exampled the fat man had pressed on with this SOLDIER modification program. An increase o drugs and Mako transfusions had numbed the very personalities of the SOLDIER who had to endure them. Perfect killers, they killed without remorse and indifference, as strong as mythical WEAPONS and deadly enough that a handful of these "super" SOLDIERS would give a army of normal men pause.
"Research takes time, it's a delicate process, Mr. President." The Turk murmured, eyes carefully kept low to avoid letting the glint of his scorn serve as a spark to start a lethal confrontation between himself and the President's SOLDIER guards. "We would not want to be so brazen as to show our hand. If AVALANCHE is roused they might kill the subject of our pursuit."
"I've heard that piece of tripe for almost ten years now, Turk."
"Our pray is cunning, gifted with capabilities beyond human comprehension." The Turk rebuked, stating the same comment he'd been trotting out for almost fifteen years now. He obscured the edge of his comment with gauze wove from his servile tone and a soft voice with little accent beyond that. But first and foremost he kept his head down. The Turk knew the Fat Man's petty hatreds, and the mere slant of the Turk's black eyes might trigger that final, fatal, confrontation.
"Subtlety, sir, is the core of our… acquisition." The Turk murmured. "While Reno's report of… non-acquisition is indeed tragic we are now somewhat more aware of the Target's location. The time of the hunt begins as we begin to acquire the most up to date information on our target. Now, all we need is a distraction. I am furthermore pleased to repot that we have one that is well on its way towards completion."
A the all but promised "progress" Alex Soloman Shirna drew a deep breath. Another came and went, it was rather like listening to a dual horn take beginners breathing exercises. After a span of many breaths had passed –most of the loud and with a bit of a obese man's wheeze- did the Turk dare look up. The familiar furious scarlet had receded from the Fat Man's cheeks, he looked a touch… comic with his face a bright shade of pink.
"Why didn't you say that earlier?" Was the surly response from the company's President.
Because it would please me greatly to report to my Lord that you'd finally died from cardiac arrest, you bastard.
"Sir." Neither rebuke nor response, Tseng didn't waste breath elaborating beyond that one sound. Finally, annoyed, the president lifted a thick fingered hand and waived it. Clearly the Turk was being dismissed.
"Go repot to my brat then, although it's my personal bet you're interested in getting into his pants rather than going over "paperwork"." The Fat Man sneered, rolling the deadly insult off his tongue as if it one of the dirty truths known by the world over and sniggered over in private. "Just remember, Wutia, I'm the one providing the paychecks here. Think about that when you give the brat your "report"."
Turning on his heel Tseng strode for the room's sole exit, his steps silent as the death he dolled out.
"I want her alive, Tseng." The president of Shinra Electric snapped after his Turk, tone alone making the words a crack of a whip. "Alive, you hear me?"
Once Tseng would have stopped, at least showing he was insulted, neither would he have tolerated being treated like a rookie. No, with so much at stake, he held to a stoic demeanor even as he never bother to turn back. The door opened quietly and slammed shut on the Wutia's departure.
"Damned freak." Letting gravity ease him into the familiar curves of his tall backed chair the President lifted on meaty hand to wipe a sheen of sweat from his face. "He's nothing more than a slant eyed freak."
A duet of "yes sirs" reached the President Shinra's ears, it had a dull droning quality, those voices, but that was infinitely better than the dog-bark of a Wutia's accent.
"Did you see the man's pony tail?" The President snickered, shaking his head at the absurdity of the Wutia's fashion sense. "Little wonder the brat lets slant eyes play ewe to his ram. He certainly looks enough like a woman in dim light."
Another chorus of "yes sir's" sounded, and pleased that he was proven right –he always was right- Alex Shinra dropped his hands over his formidable paunch.
"Go report to your "Lord", Turk, he's powerless, just like you."